


on my honor (i'm okay)

by cloudburst



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: F/F, abstract bullcrap, canonverse, set somewhere after the anime i don't have like a location in the manga planned
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-04
Updated: 2015-10-04
Packaged: 2018-04-24 19:00:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4931473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cloudburst/pseuds/cloudburst
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mikasa is always repentant—and you, you are always okay. </p><p>She falls asleep against your shoulder.</p>
            </blockquote>





	on my honor (i'm okay)

**Author's Note:**

> I vaguely remember writing this at like 4 AM because I couldn't sleep. 
> 
> #noskillz
> 
> but i like it so I'm posting it :// some bullshit drabble type thing.

With her hand around your throat, unconscious guilt in charcoal grey eyes—you'd realized you had never seen anything more beautiful. 

—for what can be revealed as more precious than the crude stain of life's traffic left upon another? You ask yourself this, as she comes to consciousness—eyes now lucid, uneven breath slowing. Her hand drops from your skin, and you can only begin to assume the reddening masterpiece left by her fingertips. It's a messy constellation—a massacre that would never be considered lovely, even in the darkest of rooms. This you know—but it is important that she not blame herself, merely for unconscious decisions rooted in a mind's deepest fears. 

She cannot help that her nightmares are of truth—that the screams of those fallen she believes she's failed reverberate through vulnerable ears at night, making her a fuddled concoction of ninety percent fucked and ten percent up. It's because she is the setting sun, but also the stars shining unto you at night—a constant symbol of consistence and the act of coming to an approaching end. 

—though, what the two of you have will not come to that approach any time soon. 

You can convince yourself that this codependence, has become a broken love—or it could have been, once—before she began to dream of your betrayal only in death, that has yet to hold true. 

Or, maybe it is love, and that is why she cries now. 

She cries against your shoulder, because the galaxy upon your skin is not beautiful—is the product of her nightmares and fright, her attempts to purge the monster within. 

Or quite literally, it is her nightmare—choking the very thing she loves, another fear within itself. 

You cannot imagine the feeling of what it means to be her. 

Mending words are pulling you apart—picking at your body till you suspect that only skeletal remnants will be left. 

Maybe she will love you, when vines take root among your lungs. 

And maybe she will not. 

But the vines will wrap around your ribs—cracking them till flowers bloom atop your decay. 

She will surely love you then. Of this, you are certain. 

So you allow her to cry into your shoulder, whispering how she's sorry to have hurt you. Sorry _again._

Mikasa is always repentant—and you, you are always okay. 

She falls asleep against your shoulder. 

Wide awake, your hands trail along the skin of a bare back—mapping out any imperfections they find. This keeps you sane, more than you'd like to admit. 

—keeps you nearly as calm as her heartbeat beneath your ear mid-night, with the rise and fall of her chest assuring you all is well in that moment. 

So yes, you believe it to be love—certainly when she wakes up, her lips leaving stars of another kind across fiery red marks, that she feels have been burned into your skin. 

Her lips are cool, as she pushes your back to the lumpy mattress. But her hands are leaving scorching trails of fire in their wake, as always—in the grandest of ways. 

Rough palm against the skin of your cheek and you know she's _so sorry,_ has said it too many times for you to count.

You just kiss her—pray to the walls she'll be quiet for a minute, and maybe with that moment will silence that regret within her mind when she realizes you've already forgiven her, for a crime she hasn't even committed. 

Because it is not Mikasa's fault. 

It is not her fault that you all have had to grow up far too quickly, in a world that does not accept failure. 

It is not her fault, the world is a broken bone—one that people can only strive to mend.

And as you turn to ash beneath her palms—vines slowly finding a home within your lungs, flowers blooming atop your diaphragm—it is all okay, as you've always fooled yourself. 

It is something of a skill now. 

You cannot imagine what it is to be Mikasa. 

But she cannot imagine what it means to be you.


End file.
